there were slate gray ovens--
quietly heated,
smoke spilling from stacks--
left unheeded;
as intent crept
on leather soles--
deep seeded,
from bunkers it slithered--
then receded;
and the sky turned black--
with objection
sun hanging its head--
in dejection
for the grass still grew green,
blood seeping below--
stains unseen;
hate is a subtle thing,
nailed to crosses--
marking the graves--
of life's losses.
carved into swastikas--
distorted
and then religiously--
contorted,
leaving truth and justice
morally extorted...
Bronze trophy winner
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